by R.S. Grey
My punch is solid. I wouldn’t be surprised if I broke bone.
I’m in a daze as he hits the ground, knocked out cold.
Police officers rush over and put me in handcuffs.
Pete finds me in the holding cell, my hands between my knees, my gaze on the floor.
“Goddammit, I told you not to touch him,” he admonishes with an annoyed tone.
I peer up as he pulls a keychain from his belt buckle and unlocks the door.
“Coulda killed him, you idiot. Then you’d really be up shit creek.”
“Is he pressing charges?”
“Obviously—you heard what kinda guy he is. Luckily, most of the witnesses saw it as a little slap. Misdemeanor assault, $500 fine most likely.”
I nod. “I doubt that blonde with him will corroborate that version of the story. She saw what happened.”
“Oh, she left about an hour ago, sick of this guy’s bullshit, most likely. Officers overhead her shouting that she was going back to California without him. As far as I can tell, it’s your word against his.”
He slides the cell door open and I push to stand.
“Best $500 I ever spent.”
“Yeah, well, it’ll also go on your record, so don’t make this vigilante thing a habit.”
“I didn’t plan on hitting him. I just wanted to talk.”
He chuckles under his breath and pats my shoulder. “That punch sure looked like it was worth a thousand words.”
I don’t see Andrew again as I leave the station, and that’s a good thing. That one punch felt pretty good; a second one would probably feel even better.
I had time to cool off in that holding cell, but now I’m more anxious than ever to see Meredith. I want to know why Andrew came to town and what he said to her. I want to know if he threatened her in any way. I won’t allow it. I’ll get a restraining order, a fence, a fucking private army stationed at the front of Blue Stone if that’s what it’ll take for her to never have to see him again.
I’m relieved when I pull up at home and see a black-and-white parked out front. Officer Martinez is inside playing a game of Scrabble with Meredith and Edith. True to Pete’s word, there’s sweet tea and a plate of cookies spread out on the table. Martinez looks damn comfortable sitting there, but as soon as he sees me step inside, he shoots to his feet.
I tip my head in thanks. “Good to see you, Connor.”
“Things, uh, settle down at the station?”
His gaze shifts to my bloody knuckles and I wonder if he got word about the incident.
“Everything’s fine.”
I glance to where Meredith is sitting, eyes wide with worry. Without a word, she stands and rounds the table, walking toward me in a daze. There’s an emotion in her eyes I’ve never seen as she steps right up to me and wraps her arms around my waist. I’m still standing frozen as her forehead hits my chest and she squeezes me tight. A chain reaction happens so suddenly, emotions firing off one after another: anger replaced by relief, worry replaced by love. I bend down and press a kiss to the top of her head as her shoulders shake. I wonder what kind of day she’s had, if she was scared when Andrew showed up like that. I wish I’d been here with her and feel guilty that I wasn’t. I whisper that against her ear and she shakes her head, but there are no words.
Edith and Martinez excuse themselves and I wrap my hand around her neck so I can tilt her head back and look at her face.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, gaze flitting back and forth between her eyes.
I finally realize she’s not crying…she’s laughing.
“You should have seen Edith with the shotgun.”
“Tell me what happened with Andrew. Why was he here?”
She huffs out a little exhale and smiles—smiles!
“He actually came to hand-deliver divorce papers.”
Hope explodes into my chest. “You’re kidding.”
She steps back to retrieve a stack of papers from the coffee table so she can hand them off to me.
“Nope. Apparently, he’s as eager to get rid of me as I am to get rid of him. He said he has a way to expedite the process once I get them signed.”
I start riffling through the papers quickly. I’ll need a little while to read them, and of course I’ll pass them along to my lawyer, but they’re real, honest-to-goodness divorce papers. She’s not kidding.
“Why’d Edith fire the shotgun then?”
A little chuckle escapes as she shakes her head at the memory.
“Oh, he was being an asshole. Edith had had enough and wanted to scare him a little.”
“By trying to kill him?”
She rolls her eyes. “Is that what he said happened? The shot wasn’t even close. She was aiming a couple yards off.”
I smile at Edith’s gumption. “Andrew was trying to get attempted murder charges drawn up. She could have spent the rest of her life in some dingy jail cell all because she couldn’t help herself.”
“Ain’t a jury in the land that would convict me!” Edith shouts from the kitchen. Apparently, she didn’t go too far when she left us alone. “That pansy boy hit the deck like he was in the middle of a war zone. Total wimp if you ask me—that’s why he had to pick on Meredith, made him feel better about himself!”
Meredith and I exchange a smile and then her expression turns thoughtful.
“Wait…” Meredith says, frowning. “How’d you find out about all this? Aren’t you supposed to be in San Antonio?”
“Sheriff called me, let me know what had happened. I rushed here as soon as I heard about it.”
Her eyes narrow on my rumpled clothes then her gaze falls to my bloody knuckles.
“You rushed straight here?” she asks, picking up my hand to inspect it.
Her bottom lip juts out as she examines the damage. It’s nothing.
“I might have made a quick stop at the police station first, but I did bring you the souvenir I promised.”
It’s one of those plastic police badges they pass out to kids on school field trips. It proclaims the wearer to be a Junior Deputy Sheriff. I’m pretty sure it’s legit.
“Welcome to the force.”
Her blue eyes whip up to me. She isn’t impressed. “Jack!” she admonishes. “Please tell me you didn’t do anything to Andrew.”
“All right,” I say, leaning down and kissing her cheek. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Jack!” She groans as I head toward the kitchen. I need to clean my knuckles off.
Edith is in there, sitting at the table, sipping her tea.
Meredith tries to recruit her onto her team. “Your grandson bloodied his knuckles in a fight with Andrew!”
Edith seems barely interested.
“Technically, it wasn’t a fight,” I say as I run my hand under cold water. “I punched him once and knocked him out.”
Now that elicits a smile from Edith.
Meredith points her finger at the two of us. “You two! I swear! Violence is not the answer—you can’t just go around blasting shotguns and knocking people out.” She’s pacing now, getting herself real worked up. “What if he presses charges? What if he gets the cops involved?!”
I remind her that the cops are already involved.
“What if you go to jail?!” Her eyes go extra wide then and her hand shoots to her mouth.
There’s no talking her down. I tell her everything will work out the way it’s supposed to, but she doesn’t believe me until we get a call from the sheriff a few hours later informing us that Andrew is dropping all charges.
I put him on speaker and we all listen. Apparently, my lawyer came up with half a dozen charges to counter with, things like trespassing and disorderly conduct. He even went so far as to accuse Andrew of stalking and informed him that Meredith would be filing for a restraining order. Whether or not these charges would stick in a court doesn’t matter. Whatever Andrew expected to find in Texas, I’m sure it didn’t include Edith and me. My suspicions are proved right when he leave
s a heated voicemail for Meredith that night, informing her that he thinks they should behave like adults from this point forward.
“Sign the damn papers and let’s get this over with,” he implored, right before the voicemail cut off.
She drops the signed paperwork in the mail first thing Monday morning.
29
Meredith
In the end, I have to take money from Andrew. When they drew up the divorce papers, he and his lawyer worked out a figure that was deemed more than adequate compensation for our five-year marriage. If you’re wondering, it was $500,000. To Andrew, that’s pennies. To me, that’s half a million dollars. Half a million shirts I don’t have to fold. Half a million plates I don’t have to wash. Still, I would have turned the money down altogether, but my lawyer made it clear that the quickest way forward would be to agree to their terms and move on. If I wanted to decline the money, I’d have to draft a new set of documents and pay the requisite legal fees. I don’t exactly have money to burn at the moment, so…fine, whatever. I’ll take it.
I’ve thought a lot about what I’ll do with the money, but it’s obvious, really. The second it’s deposited in my account, I’ll be donating to three different women’s shelters around Central Texas, the region I’m happy to call my new home. I know I could use the money to pad my savings account or buy a house or start a business, but it doesn’t feel right—not only because I don’t want Andrew’s dirty money anywhere near me, but also because I don’t need that money. Most women in these shelters have no one by their side. I know how that feels. I was there once not long ago, and if my money can help lighten their load even a little, I’m more than happy to send it their way. Also, in case you think I’m doing it for completely selfless reasons, I also get a kick out of the fact that Andrew’s money is going to help these women. He’d hate it. He doesn’t have a philanthropic bone in this body.
Anyway, the fact that I’m giving his money to those women makes me smile at least twice a day. If I didn’t want to leave well enough alone, I’d ask the organizations to each build a new wing: The Andrew Wilchester Shelter for Women Escaping From Andrew Wilchester. Who knows, I still might. It’s not like his rage can hurt me anymore because—*cue confetti drop*—our divorce was finalized today.
I got a call from my lawyer at 1:35 PM and I sank down to the floor then wept like a little baby. It was totally unexpected. If someone had asked how I would react when I got that call, I would have assumed I’d pop some champagne, blast Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies”, and dance until I got a cramp in my side. Instead, I crumbled into a heap of tears and snot. It was like when Frodo finally dropped that damn ring into the fire after three long-ass books full of trouble for himself: It’s over. It’s done.
There was no way to pinpoint the exact source of my tears. It was relief, of course, but there were also conflicting, strange emotions like fear and anger and pity. I cried for the younger version of myself, the naive girl who fell in love with a monster. I cried for the fact that I’d wasted five good years in a manipulative marriage before I finally had the courage to leave. I cried because even though I want to be independent and in control of my future, a part of me is still scared I won’t be able to do it. I also cried because I’m scared of the scars. I don’t want this to harden my heart. I want to learn from my mistakes without swearing off love altogether. I want to make my own money and pave my own path without assuming that leaning on a partner makes me weak, stupid, or crippled.
Even after my ordeal, I still believe in the power of love, and maybe I owe that to Jack. I wonder if I’d still be so reluctant to shun love if I wasn’t currently in love.
An objective observer would say it’s too soon. They would purse lips and cross arms, admonishing me for even considering love at a time like this. They would declare that I should be single for exactly one year and one day and not a moment sooner, that I must take time for self-discovery (Have you read Eat, Pray, Love?!) before I even consider opening my heart to another man. If this were the 1850s, they would demand I wear mourning black out in public and shun all social engagements.
I get it. I really do. It would be great if life worked like that. How convenient would it be to meet someone special at the exact right time it was deemed socially acceptable?
The truth is, life introduced me to Jack less than 24 hours after I left Andrew. Insane, I know, and sure, at the time, I didn’t see him as a potential love interest. In fact, given the choice between lover and potential murderer, I would have put money on the latter.
But the great thing about my life is that it’s my life, not their life. If they think I should let my heart turn to stone, that’s okay. They can think that, but I’ll be over here, accepting love at face value. It’s simple if you don’t think too hard. I want to love Jack, fiercely, naively, and just as strongly as if love had never burned me in the past, because the alternative? Turning into a miserable shrew? Yeah, hard pass on that.
Today is a big day, not just because my divorce is finalized, but because I’m going to see Helen. She and Brent returned from Europe earlier in the week and they’re hosting a small dinner party to show off the renovations on their house. I’ve been nervous about it since she first invited me, planning and re-planning my outfit five different times. She and I have talked a bit over the last few weeks, but it’s been surface-level bullshit, the stuff I hate. Tonight will be different. I wrote her a long letter, and I mean long. It’s 10 pages, front and back. In it, I apologized for my mistakes and outlined exactly what I want for our future. I could vomit just thinking about it. It might seem strange. She’s my sister, but we’ve never really been sisters. I want to give it a try. I’m basically handing her my heart and openly declaring that even though we each have plenty of reasons to be bitter, we deserve more than that. I want us to be close and confide in one another. I want her in my life from here on out.
I told Jack about the letter the other day.
“It’s ten pages.”
“Are you going to bind it in paperback or hardback?”
I shoved him. “It’s long because I had a lot to say!”
He laughed. Hopefully Helen doesn’t laugh.
I have my work cut out for me. Our relationship is damaged with a capital D. Andrew was a wedge between us, along with distance, deep-seated jealousy, and the ten-year age gap. Now, I’m going to be the glue—sticky, annoying, and resilient. She is going to love me because she has no other choice. That’s the plan.
Edith and I ride together to Helen’s house; Jack had to run over to the restaurant first so he’s meeting us there. I’m quiet in the car, cradling the letter on my lap. Edith asks me if I’m nervous and I reply with a noncommittal grunt. Truthfully, yes, I’m either nervous or my stomach has stopped working. I couldn’t manage food all day, and my hands are shaking. I tell Edith we should keep circling the block as we pull up out front.
“I grew up in the wake of the Depression—I’m not wasting gas,” she says before parking.
Edith isn’t an enabler, and that’s a good thing. She gives me the kick in the ass I need, both in the car and midway up the path when I turn back and tell her I left something at the farmhouse. She grabs ahold of my dress and tugs me all the way to the front door.
When it’s swept open, it’s like I’m seeing my sister for the first time in five years. Her light brown hair is trimmed short, just below her chin. Her simple wrap dress accentuates her curves and her glowing skin. I’m glad to see she looks happy.
I hold up the bouquet we picked up on the way—sunflowers. I remember she used to love them when she was younger, and I tell her so. She smiles.
“They’re still my favorite.”
I’m pleasantly surprised to see Daniel and Leanna along with a few other guests in the living room. Helen introduces me as her baby sister, and maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I think I can almost detect pride in her voice. After I wave to the room at large, I follow Helen into the kitchen.
“Can I hel
p with anything?”
She’s got her hands full finishing up dinner and I really hope she says yes, because this is so awkward and I have nothing to do with my hands. I can’t keep wringing them out. I try crossing my arms, but then I seem tense. I prop one on my hip and try to act natural.
“Sure, can you put those flowers in water? There’s a vase in that cabinet over there.”
As I trim and arrange them, she tells me about Europe. She says it was the trip of a lifetime, but she and Brent are both happy to be back home.
“We walked a ton, but I still gained ten pounds. It’s all those damn croissants! I think I ate six a day. Starting tomorrow, Brent and I are going on a diet.”
“I think you look great. You have that post-travel glow. But, if you want, I have a few healthy recipes I’ve been making for Jack and Edith lately. I can write them down for you.”
After we finish talking about her trip, we’re silent for a few minutes as she puts me to work mixing up the salad ingredients. We have things to talk about. The letter is burning a hole in my purse and I know she knows about the divorce. I mentioned it the other day in a text.
“Have you heard from Andrew lately?” I ask.
“Didn’t I tell you I blocked his number?”
She says it so casually that I don’t think I hear her right.
“What?”
She glances over her shoulder. “Yeah. After Jack told me what happened when he came down to Texas, I blocked his ass.”
Wow. Um, okay.
Talk about the end of an era.
I’m so shocked, I have nothing to say, so I apologize. “I’m sorry about…well, everything.”
She sets down the spoon she was using to stir the pasta. “Please don’t apologize, okay? I didn’t want to get into this tonight, not with everyone here, but—” She breaks eye contact and glances away, taking a deep breath. “I was so wrong about…a lot actually.” I hold stock-still as she continues. “This situation has been hard for me to navigate. I’ve always wanted the best for you, and I thought that meant staying with Andrew. You have to understand, Meredith”—her voice cracks—“I thought you were happy. I really did.”